Summer of Sydney

I'm gonna raise a fuss, I'm gonna raise a holler
About working all summer just trying to earn a dollar
Every time I call my baby trying to get a date
My boss says, no dice, son, you gotta work late
Sometimes I wonder what I'm gonna do
But there ain't no cure for the summertime blues

- Eddie Cochran, "Summertime Blues"

SUMMER OF SYDNEY (A PORNOGRAPHIC NOVELETTE)

I.

There I stood, my cock and balls out in front of Sydney Szymanski. Bare-assed, public place, defenseless from the glances of anyone who might pass by... but wait. Let me start over at the beginning.

I first laid eyes on Pam on summer break, when I took a job in a shop in a shitty little tourist town not too far from school. Weatherwise, it was somewhere between the mid-Atlantic shore and Satan's balls.

This was the kind of shop that opened from May to September. You could buy shirts and hats with slogans your mom would laugh at. We also served smoothies and just about anything you could throw in a fryer.

I was a broke sometime college guy. Super senior, average height, average build. Unremarkable, by my own estimation, in nearly every way. I was also severely under-sexed. At least, that's how I felt.

I knew it was bad when I started that job and was seriously contemplating running game on several of my female coworkers. Being horny is like being drunk. Your decisionmaking gets questionable.

There was slim, blonde Lydia, tiny, brunette Martha, pink, chubby Eliza, and dark and dour Chelsea. All of them were attractive. Upon meeting each of them, I instantly imagined having sex with them.

I know. It's creepy. But I'm being honest here.

It's bad enough, being a chronically unlaid red-blooded straight guy spending most of his waking hours in a workplace otherwise staffed by nubile women. Water, water, everywhere, et cetera. Then Pam walked in.

Pam was another blonde, but as different from Lydia as it gets. Androgynously built, thin in a slightly soft way, very tan. At work, she wore low-cut cargo pants and fitted t-shirts. Her smile was radiant.

I was mesmerized by Pam every moment I saw her. I'm not sure I could explain why--she just had a quality. but it didn't really get bad until a couple occasions when she swung by the shop on her off hours.

The first time was from across the store. I was in the back of the shop, rummaging around with some kind of shit--it doesn't matter. I looked up and she was chatting with whoever was working the register.

Even from my remote vantage point, the details seared themselves into me. She wore the tiniest white bikini, which barely covered her small breasts and apparently hairless pubic mound. Not a tan line in sight.

She was otherwise clad in a translucent mango-colored beach wrap that hung low on her hips, and flip flops that still had sand on them. If she'd looked, she would have seen me picking my jaw up from the floor.

The second time, she walked by, stopped, and asked me for something directly. I remember answering her, but I don't remember the question, and I don't remember what I said, or if I even spoke coherent English.

Unlike her masculine workwear, she was wearing a cropped t-shirt and a low-slung boho skirt that showed about a mile of her naked mid-section. She was decent by just a couple inches in either direction.

From then on, I was obsessed with Pam. I thought about her when I masturbated. I even looked for porn based on how closely the women resembled her. I felt I would go crazy if I didn't make her mine.

Lydia, Martha, Eliza, and Chelsea were all sexually enticing. I wouldn't have turned down the opportunity to fuck any one of them, or any combination of them. But I had it bad for Pam. She was the one.

The problem was, we almost never spoke. We rarely worked the same shift, rarely had the same duties, so I only saw her in the precious overlap in between. I thought about her more than I actually saw her.

As it happens with seasonal workplaces, employees came and went without much resistance. Pam spent less and less time in the shop. I hadn't seen her in a few days by the time I found out she'd moved on.

Likewise, Eliza and Chelsea were less of a presence, until they, too, quit--led away by other opportunities in Eliza's case and family matters in Chelsea's. The bosses scrambled to bring on some new hires.

There was Samantha, a blue-haired bespectacled granola girl who, I would slowly learn through the rotation of her outfits, had a soft, slim body with lots of tattoos. She always smelled like the beach.

Samantha was also a huge flirt, at least, with me. She started calling me pet names, blew me kisses, made little bits of incidental physical contact. Once, she squeezed by me and brushed my cock with her ass.

I had no idea if it meant anything or not. I have historically been the worst at figuring out if someone wants to fuck me or if they just have a flirty personality. Still, Samantha seemed the most likely.

That was also right around when Sydney hired in. She was half a head taller than me, even without the platform shoes that she habitually wore. She wore loose-fitting clothes that made her look shapeless.

She was cute and friendly, in an aloof sort of way, a dark-haired, pale brunette with a crinkly eyed smile. I liked her well enough, but she was the only one I didn't instantly imagine having sex with.

It's not that there was anything wrong with her. She just wasn't the type to have any interest in that kind of thing. Like I said, she was cute, but she was cute in an asexual way. Or, at least, desexual.

Yeah, I know. I was being a shitty person. That's who I was at that point in my life, and I don't want to hide it. I was almost entirely sex-motivated, and I just didn't envision it happening with Sydney.

One day, she came into work, and she wasn't wearing billowing, shapeless clothes. I think she'd taken the shift in a hurry and came from doing something else without going home to put on work clothes.

She wore a spaghetti string tank top, cropped just above her navel, and cutoff denim shorts. She came in, hung her stuff up, and was washing her hands in the employee sink when I saw her from behind.

She wasn't chubby, but every part of her body was soft and rounded, like a layer of protective padding. Her arms and legs were long, thick, and powerful-looking, thighs faintly rippled with cellulite.

She wiped her hands and abruptly turned, and caught me staring at her.

Mercifully, she didn't call me out. The shift proceeded as if it hadn't happened, and, at the end of the day, we bade our farewells. By then, May had turned to June. The parking lot was like a stovetop.

In the weeks following, Sydney stopped wearing the billowing clothes and had started wearing more revealing outfits on a regular basis. In my more paranoid moments, I imagined she was teasing me on purpose.

It was, of course, hot as hell, and she was getting more accustomed to the culture of the workplace. If she coming into work in as little clothing as she could get away with, it had nothing to do with me.

Still, I stared often, and she caught me every time. I felt like she'd made a game out of it. I don't know how she felt about it, but there was no way she didn't know I was thinking about fucking her.

It wasn't that her personality suddenly changed, or her treatment of me, or her vibe. I still saw her, sexually, as fresh, untouched snow. I wanted her as my disciple, my exclusive student, in Carnality 101.

I could have had Samantha. I was sure of it. Lydia, I might have had a shot with, though she had an off-and-on boyfriend she was never quite sure about. Even quiet, cranky Martha, I probably could have bedded.

But Sydney was a mystery. I would chat with her, be friendly with her, learn small details about her life. She'd been an athlete since junior high. (Of course.) She had a boyfriend, but she identified as queer.

What I couldn't suss out was her opinion of me. Not even if she shared my sexual attraction to any extent, but if she gave me any thought at all. Maybe she forgot about me the moment I was out of sight.

If we worked the same shift, I would be sure to walk with her out to our cars. It wasn't something I planned. I guess I was scraping together whatever little bits of time I could have alone with her.

Neither of us ever looked our best. Sweaty, tired, covered in grime, dirty clothes, hair in disarray. But we would chat, and, regardless of how we looked or felt, she finally started to feel like a friend.

I still badly wanted to fuck her, of course. To peel off those dirty denim shorts, roll up that sweaty top, and find out what she was like underneath. But it the impulse had receded to the back of my mind.

II.

The first day of summer came. Peak beach season, lots of tourists. The shift was brutal. Sydney and I had no breaks, no downtime together. But the times we locked eyes were nothing short of trauma bonding.

We stayed extra late, getting the store back into order, the great reset for whichever poor unfortunate souls had to work the opening shift the next morning. By the time we got out, it was getting dark.

Today, we said nothing. Maybe our brains were too worn out to produce words. When we got to our cars, instead of breaking away, me to my van and her to her station wagon, she followed me and stood behind me.

I saw her looming in our reflection in the window. She was tall enough that her entire face, lit from one side in soft streetlight, hovered like an apparition over my shoulder. She looked calm, meditative.

When I turned around, she reached around and cupped the back of my head with her hand and leaned down and kissed me.

It took me a second to catch on, and the more I reciprocated, the more aggressive she became. Her lips clutched at mine like greedy fingers, then they got ahold of my tongue and lewdly suckled the tip of it.

Though I was bewildered by the sudden rush of sensations--her wet, hot, sucking mouth, the scent of her sweat and her body odor, the warm closeness of her big body--my instincts reliably sprang into action.

The moment our mouths separated, I said, "Your place or mine?"

"If I go to bed, I'm going to sleep," she said. "Do you want to do this or not?"

I nodded.

Her fingertips tugged suggestively at the waistband of my jogging shorts. I looked around nervously. Part of me felt silly for not just dropping my pants and getting on with it. But what if someone saw?

I looked up into her face and saw only impatience, bordering on disinterest.

I slid down my shorts and underwear just enough to allow my cock and balls to hang out. The hot, thick summer air felt strange on my erection. She gave my shorts a yank and they dropped to my ankles.

There I stood, my cock and balls out in front of Sydney Szymanski. Bare-assed, public place, defenseless from the glances of anyone who might pass by. But no one did. Hers were the only eyes on me.

She hooked two fingertips under my cock and tilted it upwards as if to examine it more directly. Her touch was powerful. I waited for her to say something, felt sick to my stomach that she might laugh at it.

"Is there room on the floor in that van?" she asked.

Then we were in the van, the door sliding shut behind us, the heat in the closed, stuffy box immediately suffocating. We crouched together, uncomfortably close in the narrow space between the middle seats.

We maneuvered. It was like we were wrestling. I thought she would lie down, but somehow I found myself lying on my back with her body on top of mine. The carpeting on the floor was unclean, but uncluttered.

She was wriggling--working her way out of her shorts and panties, I figured. I sat up a little, trying to get a glimpse of her partial nakedness, but she put her hands on my chest and pushed me back down.

With an unladylike noise, she snorted and spit into her hand and reached down between our bodies and took my cock in her hand, wiping me up and down with her spit-slicked palm before pointing me home.

We've all fantasized about a coworker at some point, haven't we? In those low, lonely moments in life, starved for attention, searching for a suitably unavailable target for our unrequited yearnings.

Who among us is free from sin?

What followed was heaven. Hot, wet, soft, like a cloud, touching upon my bare dickhead and gliding on down, enveloping me. A mysterious maybe-smile just visible at the corners of her mouth. The Mona Lisa.

The lower half of her body, warm and heavy, came to rest upon mine, her soft ass in my lap, her thighs around my hips, the contact between our bare skin electric. In our cramped confines, I saw nothing.

She held herself up, hands on the floor to either side of my head. She still wore her top, bra straps peeking through spaghetti strings.

I went to pull up the hem and she reached down to brush my hand away.

She put her hands on my chest, holding me down, and started moving her hips forward and back, not really bouncing on me, but grinding on me, our pubic bones mashed together, firm, but slick, almost frictionless.

Sydney's eyes were glazed, her mouth half-open. Sweat rolled off her forehead, landing on my shirt and in my own half-open mouth, so salty. Her cleavage was in my face, pressed together by her arms and her bra.

Her tits were bigger than I thought. Not that they were big, but they weren't small, either. Flushed, sweaty, catching the light through the van window. I stared freely at them. I'd never had the opportunity.

It was incredible, but maddening. She had staked herself upon me, and what I was getting was an absolutely lovely sensation on my penis that was going nowhere for me except wiping pussy juice on my pubic hair.

Then I saw the intense, faraway focus in her face and I felt and smelled her hot breath on my cheeks and I realized that she was masturbating herself on me, grinding her clit against my pubic bone.

For just a moment, I forgot about my penis, deprived though it was by the bouncing and thrusting that it craved. I was fascinated by Sydney, by the near-orgasmic euphoria of the heavy, sweating girl upon me.

Then the tension in her elbows gave out and she laid down upon me, leaving me almost breathless. She clamped a hand over her own mouth. All I heard was a faint, whispering whine as her body vibrated on me.

After about a minute of these subdued fireworks, she stopped moving and just laid upon me, our bodies sweating profusely in the heat, our skin sticking together. My cock throbbed impatiently, still inside.

Then she writhed and wriggled until I was out of her. Briefly, my damp cock felt cool even in the warm, stale air of the van. Another unladylike spit and she reached down between my bodies and gripped me.

She didn't look into my face, but sort of past it in a dazed, dispassionate downward glance as she jerked me off. She brought me to orgasm as quickly and efficiently as if I had done it myself.

When the itch was scratched and my pubes were laced with cum, she reached up, threw open the sliding door, crawled out and stood up on unsteady legs. Again, I thought we'd be seen, but no one was there.

Up to that point, I still hadn't seen anything. Now, for a few lovely, fleeting seconds, I saw her from behind, standing there in the parking lot, her panties and shorts bunched high up around one naked leg.

She had a round ass that overhung her thighs, which were wide enough to give her prominent hip dips. With an apparent well-practiced grace, she stepped back into her clothes and she was no longer on display.

(I've been attracted to women with hip dips ever since, all thanks to this brief glimpse of Sydney. It couldn't have lasted more than a second.)

She turned and looked me over, like an artist surveying her finished work. I was side-on to her, still lying naked from the waist down on the van floor.

"See you tomorrow?" she said.

I nodded. It was all I could manage.

Then she was gone. I sat up and shook my head as if to loosen its contents. Did that really just happen? Could I be so randomly lucky? Her sweat and my sticky cum were still on my body to tell the tale.

I sat there for a minute in the doorway of the van, my feet dangling, not even caring anymore that my cock was out in front of a potentially hostile world. My fantasy, or at least a version of it, had come true.

And I was already desperate for it to happen again.

III.

The most perplexing thing about work the next day was how utterly normal it was.

Sure, it was still hot as balls and we were still getting double-fucked by a tidal wave of dead-eyed tourists who treated us with the same annoyed indifference as they would a glitchy self-serve kiosk.

But the usual fleeting interactions between Sydney and me were just... normal. Same as always. It was the last thing I expected, since she'd given herself an orgasm with me as her sex toy just 16 hours prior.

At the end of the night, we had the normal parking lot small talk and tired goodbyes, same as always, as if our van hookup had happened in a dream I'd had. But it was real. The van still smelled faintly of her.

A few shifts in a row ended like this before I finally confronted her. It was in the parking lot after work, our usual bit of alone time between locking the back door and splitting up to go to our cars.

We came to my van first. Her car was a few spaces further away. Before she could raise her hand with her keys in it, her usual goodbye, I spoke up.

"Can I talk to you for a minute?"

She stopped where she was and sighed. I guess she knew this was coming sooner or later.

The problem was that I didn't think ahead of time about what I was going to say. I hadn't bothered, maybe because I figured I'd chicken out. She might have seen it coming, but I had no idea what "it" was.

I blurted out, "Are we anything?"

She looked around and saw that we were alone. I guess fucking in the van was okay, but this... this was a private matter.

She said, "There are some things that, if you knew, might change the way you think about me."

"If it's about your boyfriend, I just figured if you're okay with it, I'm not going to judge."

I knew as it came out of my mouth that I was, in fact, judging her. Not to mention how supremely self-centered I was being. No, Sydney, of course I won't pass judgment on your decision to have sex with me.

The look on her face wasn't what I expected. It wasn't as if she hadn't caught the stink of what I'd said. But it was as if the wheels were turning, like she was debating how much she wanted to tell me.

Then she said, "Not long before she quit, Eliza told me she and her boyfriend wanted to try a threesome, with me as their third. And last night, we did it."

Oh.

To backtrack a little: Remember how I said Sydney was the one coworker I didn't fantasize about having sex with. Something about her had just seemed kind of sexless, maybe even virginal. Totally off my radar.

Now I was fixated on her and pink, chubby Eliza, naked together, sweating and writhing atop the covers of some luxurious king-sized bed. I'd never met Eliza's boyfriend, but I guess he was there too.

Whatever look I had on my face--shock, humility, horny, whatever--must have encouraged Sydney to continue.

She said, "I have an ex-boyfriend I meet up with once a month to have sex. I feel bad for him. He kind of failed to launch after we broke up. I also just missed the sex."

I tried to play it cool. Just ask questions. Take an interest.

Try not to put anyone on the spot about how your mental picture of their life has been taken apart--nay, obliterated--in a little less than a week.

Carefully, I asked, "Does your current boyfriend know about any of this?"

"Some of it, yeah. Not about my ex. But there's a lot of others. There isn't enough time in the world to tell him everything."